


Organizing Chaos

by House of Halation (glasshibou)



Category: Shall We Date?: Obey Me!
Genre: I cannot emphasize this enough, MC is not a student, MC is perpetually exhausted and look their life is not going well so why don't we add demons, Other, Slice of Life, This Is Incredibly Self Indulgent, and written primarily for me but you can read it if you want, but is a human, comedy ish, gonna add tags as we go, so much swearing
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-30
Updated: 2020-09-30
Packaged: 2021-03-07 18:49:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,694
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26702464
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/glasshibou/pseuds/House%20of%20Halation
Summary: A job is a job, even if you're working for demons. You guess.
Comments: 6
Kudos: 42





	Organizing Chaos

Monday mornings are extremely, unrelentingly, unquestionably cursed. Nothing good  _ ever _ happens on a Monday. That’s how you know you’re utterly boned when your boss asks you to come in early for a private meeting. On a Monday.

Fuck. 

You haul yourself out of bed and wonder how much effort you should put into your appearance if you’re getting fired. Eventually you settle on  _ not too much _ and crawl your way into the office, a prompt forty-five minutes before it’s actually meant to open. Most things are still dark. Your desk looks cold and neglected, and you wish you could have neglected it for just a bit longer. 

The bushy facial hair on your boss’s lips twitches in what is either a smile or a grimace when he sees you, and while you’re not sure which would be best to see at the moment, you think that it’s maybe not a grimace. You heave a sigh and follow him into his office, staring out his window into the still-sleeping city. 

He sits down behind his desk. 

You sit across from him, wondering if you should have brought a box or if your tote bag is big enough to carry everything out in. Regardless, it’s going to be a bitch to haul the contents of your desk home on the subway. 

He stares at you long enough that you start to wonder if  _ you _ called the meeting. Then you remember that’s absurd. Isn’t it? It’s becoming abundantly clear that you shouldn’t have had that last glass of wine before going to bed. 

“We have a new client,” your boss says, and because you’re too busy wondering if your LinkedIn profile is up to date and considering his similarities to a walrus, you don’t immediately hear his words. They hit you like a brick wall.

“Okay,” you say because you’re not sure what else there is to say. 

“They’re out of the country,” he continues, looking more and more nervous. The last time he’s looked this nervous a prominent client went on a week-long bender and livestreamed most of it. Christ, that had been a mess to clean up and almost made you go on a bender of your own.

“You noted on your application that you wouldn’t mind relocating,” he says as if he can read your thoughts. “And you’re the only one in the firm without a family, so…”

It doesn’t sound like you’re being fired. 

“I’m not being fired?” You ask because you just have to be sure. Your boss blinks down at you and cements the walrus imagery in your mind forever. 

“Of course not,” he tells you. “They’ve requested someone to handle all of their online presence, and the firm determined that you would be the best fit.”

Most likely because as the newest hire, you’re lowest on the totem pole. Ugh.

“Now, you’ll be living on campus, so all of your accommodations will be taken care of. Nothing to worry about, really. The contract is indeterminate, so you’ll be there for…” your boss’s tongue peeks out to lick his lips and oh,  _ shit, _ he’s super nervous. Not a good sign. “You’ll be there for as long as they need you to be,” he finally finishes. He slides a suspiciously slim manila folder across his desk at you, narrowly missing one of his goofy little desk decorations as he does so. You flip it open and find a single page inside. 

_ Welcome to the Royal Academy of Diavolo! _ It proclaims proudly, right beside poorly-framed, blurry photographs of what you assume is a student, dressed up either for a theatre production or for a halloween event. Either way, not a super awesome first impression. You can’t even tell how old the student is supposed to be.

“Is this it?” You wave the single paper beside your head as if waiting for it to multiply magically. Your boss has the decency to look ashamed. “Can you tell me  _ anything _ else about it?”

“It’s a school,” he says. 

“Right, but… College? University? Primary education? Public? ...Private?” Probably private, you determine with another glance at the name, and  _ christ, _ is that comic sans? Your boss coughs lightly.

“It’s a school,” he says again, as if that in any way answers any of your questions. 

Fucking fantastic.

\---

If you didn’t need the money so bad, you’d have tossed the sad excuse for a client profile in the trash. What the hell is your boss thinking, taking on this client? But you  _ do _ need the money, so you go home and pack a few bags and look at your sad, shitty little apartment you sublet from your college roommate. They’ll be able to find someone new no problem, and you’re honestly not too sad to be saying goodbye to the shoebox. 

Sayo-fucking-nara. 

At least room and board is covered at your new gig at the mystery school.

\---

You agreed to meet at the train station because that’s a public place with plenty of security cameras and witnesses, and honestly, if you’re going to get murdered for this job you want your kidnapping to be recorded, at the very least. You don’t know if your chauffeur is going to be holding a little sign with your name on it like in the movies or not, but you think probably not. You scan the crowd for someone who looks like they're from the  _ Royal Academy of Whevever-the-hell _ and give up after an hour of sitting on the hard wooden bench provided for poor schmucks like you. 

The whole thing is probably a joke. Ha, ha. Very fucking funny, let’s haze the new employee. A lawsuit sounds like the perfect way to round out your Monday morning. 

Irritated at a brand new level, you haul your bags into the bathroom after you, fully intending to splash some water on your face. If you didn’t think they’d get stolen, you’d have left them behind on the bench. But seeing as how just about every earthly possession you have is within them, you’re not too keen on the idea.

So they follow you into the pitch-black void that is meant to be the restroom, which really, is just another cherry on the shit sundae that has become your morning. You’re tired, in the last place you want to be right now, chasing after some stupid-sounding client that probably doesn’t exist, and now the electricity is on the fritz.

Perfect.

Awesome.

Two enthusiastic thumbs up. 

You swallow a growl and fling out your arm, fully intending to find the wall and, hopefully, the lightswitch. You don’t find anything at all, just more black void, and  _ why the hell aren’t your eyes adjusting _ so you take a mincing step forward. And then another. 

And another, just for good measure, which turns out to be the wrong decision, all things considered. You go hurtling forward and just before you make impact, all you can think is  _ they’d better have cleaned this godforsaken floor sometime this decade _ before you smash against flagstone.

Not the tile you’d been expecting. 

_ What? _

Your phone skitters out of your hands and you hear something on it snap with a sick, twisting feeling in your stomach. That sounded  _ expensive _ and you don’t relish trying to get it fixed on a budget. Not to mention that you’re…  _ somewhere _ and without a means of communication. 

“Oh!” Someone exclaims from above you just as you become aware that you can see. Kind of. The lights are still dim, but the moon gleaming in from the huge windows provides at least a little light to see by.

Wait.

_ Windows? _

“You’re early,” the voice says, interrupting your stalled-out train of thought. Hands reach down and pick up your bags, and then help you to your feet. You allow them to because this has to be a dream. You’ve not woken up just yet, surely, and any minute now you will, and you’re going to get fired like you thought you were going to be. This is just a stress dream. A  _ weird _ one.

“Sorry about that; we didn’t expect you for a few more minutes. Things were still being prepared.”

Or you’re dead. You’ve died in your sleep of an aneurysm or something and this is your brain’s last dying gasps as it tries to make sense of all your misfiring neurons or whatever. It’s been a long time since freshman biology class. 

“Either way, let me be the first to introduce you to both the Royal Academy of Diavolo and the Devildom!”

You stare dumbly up at the  _ huge _ mountain of a man, dressed in what looks absurdly like a red military uniform. He smiles widely at you, eyes crinkled up in expressions of pure joy like you’re not dying or stuck in a fever dream. You pinch yourself hard on your arm.

Son of a  _ bitch, _ it hurts.

Which means it’s high time your brain catches up and tries to process all of the words that have been spoken at you. A herculean task, really, because they don’t make a lick of sense and now that you think about it, maybe you hit your head when you tripped in the dark. Yeah. That would make sense. You’ve got a concussion, probably. Those come with hallucinations, right? You have no idea how concussions work, but that doesn’t stop you from deciding you have one.

“This… is not the bathroom,” you announce. 

\---

Once you have the fact that you are not, at present, standing in the middle of a train station bathroom out of the way, you're informed that you’ll have your own office. Maybe you’ve gone to heaven if it turns out that you’re actually dead. At least you won’t have to put up with anyone trying to microwave fish. Again. The memory sends a shudder down your spine, which the teal-haired man standing behind the maroon mountain misinterprets as you being cold. 

He pulls a blanket seemingly out of nowhere, which surely is not actually a thing. Maybe he’s got a backpack hidden somewhere? And the dress codes of… wherever you are (you’re stoically refusing to call it an Academy in an attempt to keep what remains of your sanity) seem awfully lax. Considering the hair. 

“For the shock,” he says as you take it. You don’t even really want it, but the man doesn't look like he’s going to hold onto it forever. So you take it, rise it slightly like you might a pint of beer, and wrap it around your shoulders. So now you’re a grown adult standing in the middle of a room that is most certainly not the train station bathroom you were expecting, staring down what might actually be the largest man in recorded history and a reject punk-rocker. While wearing a fuzzy blanket. 

Another man enters the room, and if you hadn’t been watching the door like a particularly twitchy hawk, you might have missed him. You wave at him nervously and he only  _ stares _ . To be fair, in his situation, you’d probably stare at you too.

“So… What kind of school is this?” Might as well get this out of the way early. “I mean… what are the ages of the students? What’s your curriculum? What kind of engagement do you already have?” Normally, all that would be in the profile you were presented with. But the one you’d been handed had been a bit… lacking. In just about everything. All three just  _ stare _ , and you stare back. 

“It’s… A school,” the man in red says, shifting his eyes nervously to the newcomer as if asking for assistance with your trick question. You feel a headache threatening to crack through your skull.

“For?” You prompt. 

“The study of the arcane arts,” Mr. Punk Rock adds, like  _ you’re _ being the unreasonable one in this whole scenario. You heave a sigh and pull your blanket tighter. So it’s not quite your typical private school. Fine. Okay. Maybe they’re particularly dedicated LARPers. You can deal with it—the pay this contract brought you was nothing short of unbelievable. You can deal with a few weirdos until the end of your contract.

Which has an undefined end date.

_ Fuck. _

“So… An atypical curriculum, I can work with that. This is fine. What does your website look like? What kind of social media are you running? Snapchat? FaceBook? Instagram?” All of this should really be discussed sitting down in a meeting, but none of them have made any efforts to move your sudden and unexpected onboarding into a conference room. 

“We have Devilgram,” the black-haired man offers, startling you from your thoughts. You squint at him and try to figure out if he’s taking you for a ride. What the hell kind of off-brand shit are they running? Is that legal?

You decide it isn’t your problem. 

“Okay. Well.” You pinch the bridge of your nose in irritation, giving yourself a moment to collect your patience. You hold out your hand and tell them your name, wishing your bag wasn’t down at your feet so you could give them a card. 

“My name is Barbatos,” Punk Rock says, gesturing to himself. “This is Lucifer,”  _ surely, a nickname _ , you think, eyes wide. “And this is Lord Diavolo, prince of the Devildom.”

Cool. Cool. They’re all insane. You’re going to kill your boss as soon as you get back, assuming the men in front of you don’t turn your skin into a funky little hat in the meantime. 

“We’re demons,” the redhead named Diavolo says helpfully.

“Oh,” you say. “Okay.” You chew on your bottom lip and glance around you, looking for the hidden cameras. There aren’t any, but isn’t that the point of them being hidden?  _ Play it cool, _ you tell yourself.  _ Play it cool, act dumb, and maybe you’ll go home in mostly one piece. _

“So is that, like… Your mascot?”

\---

It isn’t. 

You know the whole thing isn’t a joke because on your way to your new office you spy a student—you assume it’s a student, at any rate, because of the pile of books they have tucked under their arms and the way they’re running in the hallway—with the most ridiculous-looking horns perched on their head. They’re spiraled into tight coils on the side of their head, ending in filed-down points. 

“Huh,” you say, only allowing yourself the quasi-grunt because if you open your mouth any wider, you might scream.  _ Demons. _ Well, shit. You pull your blanket tighter around yourself, remembering that Barbatos said it was for shock. 

Barbatos opens the door to your office and gestures towards the things already present within. There’s a desk, a chair, a dead-looking plant, what looks like a cell phone, and a laptop. You almost open your mouth to say you’ve got your own, thanks, but Barbatos intercepts your words before they can even leave your mouth. 

“This is another plane of existence,” he explains with all of the liveliness you’d use to describe the way paint dries. 

“Another…” you echo him, feeling the little gears in your mind try to grind to life. Another plane of existence. Sure. Even if it wasn’t broken, your phone wouldn’t work. Of course it wouldn’t; you couldn’t get coverage in half of your apartment. Another plane of existence is absolutely not on the table as far as your carrier is concerned. 

“Plane of existence!” Diavolo finishes for you with a clap of his hands. He’s clearly stolen all of Barbatos’s  _ joie de vivre.  _ Right. Demons. Okay. You rub your face to remind yourself that you’re alive (probably) and awake (most likely) and take a step closer to the desk prepared for you. If this is a dream, then it doesn’t really matter what you do. If you’re actually in hell— _ the Devildom, _ the last gasps of your sanity remind you—then it’s probably best you at least attempt the job you’ve been sent to do: media management for a demon school. It’s not what you’d imagined while getting your degree, but, hey. The job market is rough. 

And you sure as hell don’t want to disappoint a bunch of demons.

“Where do I start?”

**Author's Note:**

> I urge you not to take this too seriously.  
> Will this follow the main plot of the game? Will there be romance? Will MC get a nice big ol' cup of coffee?  
> ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯  
> idk u tell me


End file.
